


Lazy

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Vignette, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 03:44:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12004311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thranduil lounges about in all his glory.





	Lazy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s found the perfect spot for napping—right beneath the window and beside the heat-machine, where he can stretch out on the luxurious rug and bask in a square of pure sunlight. He’s tried many different spots about the house, of course—some approved by the master and some strongly disapproved; not that Thranduil listens—but this is decidedly the best. He’d lie here all day if he could, if a tiny head didn’t start nudging against his stomach. He can feel the little ears flattening against him and ignores the piteous whining. As much as he adores his son, Legolas should really know better by now. 

But Legolas is a persistent little thing, as stubborn as his father, and he pesters Thranduil until it’s all too much. Thranduil rolls onto his side with a deep grumble, knocking Legolas aside. Legolas mewls in distress, but he’s righted himself again in a second, and then Thranduil’s swung an arm around him and dragged him closer. His white-blond hair is a mess again, but Thranduil knows just how to fix that. He turns to his precious child and splays his tongue flat against Legolas’ forehead, dragging up and back through the silk-soft tufts. 

It takes quite a bit of work to make Legolas presentable again, and he squirms through most of it, frantically trying to escape, but Thranduil pins him easily and finishes the task. He doesn’t make it free until Thranduil lets him, and only then because the master’s called some unintelligible nonsense that usually translates to ‘food.’

As soon as Legolas is out of Thranduil’s grip, he’s bolting forward, skirting across the floor to the bowl in the corner, even ducking right between the master’s hind legs. Thranduil gets up and follows at a more dignified pace. Legolas will have to learn eventually, but Thranduil does remember being young, and for now, he allows the thoughtlessness. By the time Thranduil’s arrived at the food bowl, Legolas has already spilled several dry kernels onto the floor. Thranduil ignores those—the master will clean them up, as he should—and instead crunches the crispy treats at the top of the pile. 

There’s a bowl of milk next to it to lick up afterwards, and Thranduil enjoys a few licks, though Legolas doesn’t seem thirsty and just flitters off again. There’s a plush facsimile of a mouse in the center of the rug that Legolas bats at, and as soon as he does, it takes off in a straight, entirely too linear pattern—Legolas has yet to learn that it isn’t a _real_ mouse, but only their master’s trickery to help expel some of that boundless energy. While Legolas prowls after it, front paws down and tail up, Thranduil pads over to his master’s legs, seated and pulled up to the table-thing he always sits at. He hasn’t yet figured out that the sun is on the other side of the room, and therefore the superior sit-spot.

It takes a few times of walking around the master’s legs, brushing up against them and purring pointedly, before the master ordains to reach down and play with Thranduil. A furless, elongated paw reaches behind his ear, faithfully scratching it, and Thranduil purrs louder in contentment. As soon as the paw stops, he snatches back at it, earning a strange bubbling noise from above that his antics often cause. The master is, for the most part, benevolent and beneficial to them, but sometimes he does seem to discount Thranduil’s greatness—he really should be petting Thranduil twice as much, brushing him at least once more a day, and scratching his tummy three times more. 

He pesters the master until he’s picked up and deposited in a warm lap, and then Thranduil snuggles into place to nap again, while his eager kitten frolics in the background.


End file.
